Everyone is on the lookout for minor devastations
in themselves and in others. And throughout the world.
And it's nobody's fault. Angelic gehennas,
genes, as in genesis. Lawsonia and henna.

A voice bristles in the throat. Essentially the dark sky
and neon threads of mycelium in the enchanting forest,
as if that voice were always before you, twisted
the caps off mushrooms like light bulbs, and wiped out the lamps,
installing unadulterated darkness all around, shady flickers,
a faint undergrowth, a discreet swirling under one's feet
like the ground's very own diplomatic excuse,
a whisper, a wink of sand in the eye of a well.
When the forest set slides beneath the stage
and a new audience quakes with laughter
like the sky in a drizzle of falling stars,
there will be a change of scene in my vision,

it's warm, hot, boiling, scorching, scalding, and it's

here. Someone's stuck his hand in. It ate it up.
Then he ran as if burned and kept trying
to tear the air, for in the end it all
slipped out from under him,
drawn away on a short chord,
taken down.